


His Eyes Wash Through Me

by Ferrydenpurple



Series: The Hollow Man [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrydenpurple/pseuds/Ferrydenpurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has no idea how much time has passed, only knows that he always ends up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Eyes Wash Through Me

He stands outside the house again and watches the woman and her child get into the car. She is beautiful he thinks, but the feeling is almost abstract. She would be good for a fuck but he finds he hardly cares. He doesn’t really care about anything these days. He keeps coming back to the house though, keeps finding himself watching him, the man with the sad eyes. 

In another life they were brothers, but he can’t seem to find the feeling that once inspired in him. He knows he must have cared once but now he just feels emptied out, a husk of himself. The only things he cares about now are satisfying his urges. He likes to fuck, likes to hunt, likes the adrenaline, but only on his terms. Only when it suits him. He couldn’t give a fuck about anybody else or what they want from him. 

And yet he finds himself in front of the house again and again, always watching the man with the sad eyes. 

Time starts to lose all meaning when you don’t sleep, it pours through you but doesn’t leave a mark. He has no idea how much time has passed, only knows that he always ends up here. Watching the house. Only ever watching, never anything more. It makes him feel strange to be here, like seeing the man fills up something inside him a little, something he didn’t even realise was empty. It’s a whisper of a feeling though, as fleeting and inconsequential as time is to him now. It washes through him but never sticks. It’s addictive though, this feeling, feeling anything at all. Nothing else even comes close to touching the void he has inside him like the broken mans eyes.

So he stands and watches, this hollow man. He looks into sad eyes, drinks in these whispers of feelings, and wonders what it would take for him to feel full again.


End file.
